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Rob Hammerton, music educator etc.

Sticky Wicket, Part 1

As is often the case with flashes of inspiration, I don’t recall where this one came from, at all.

But one of my answers to the essay question “what did you do with your summer?” this year is: cricket.

Yes, the curious and, to Americans, mystifying ancestor of baseball.

This Englishman’s-son didn’t play, mind you. But thanks to the wonderful technology of YouTube, I found myself not quite obsessed with the sport but certainly curious enough to hunt down clips of isolated cricket plays, then “how to play cricket” videos, and then whole matches. One day, maybe I will have played in one.

And in the past week or so, I’ve gotten to a couple of actual live matches. No small task, as I don’t live in England or Australia or any of the Commonwealth nations where cricket is Kind Of A Big Deal. I had to dig around a little bit to discover where in these United States I could see a match – and that investigation’s result will end up as Part 2 of this post, I think.

Because to tell that story, I have to address this question: what the devil is this cricket game anyway?

If you’re among 99 percent of Americans, you have only a vague idea. Guys in white outfits, some of whom wear shin pads … some of whom carry things that look like the offspring of an illicit affair between a baseball bat and a ping-pong paddle … some of whom are running back and forth somehow …

If you’re a resident of what used to be the British Empire (except perhaps Canada, since cricket on ice would be just nuts) … you’re wondering, “how can you not know?”

My English father was a great guy. About the only thing he didn’t do for his son was to explain cricket. Which he did say he meant to do.

Let me see if I can boil it down to a few points. Unlikely, but I’ll try. Let me see if Dad will peer down from the science experiments he’s running, up in Heaven, and nod and say, “that would be the idea.”

[1] The object of the game is to Win.

[1a] Your team wins by scoring more Runs than the other team.

[1b] A Ball is hurled into play, and a batsman hits it, and then scampers to specific locations on the playing field, thereby scoring Runs, thereby getting closer to Winning.

So far … baseball, yeah?

They’re related. And some cricket concepts can {and thus will, within these brackets,} be described in terms of baseball.

And some of them can’t.

First, you need a field. Size of the field varies, but usually a soccer pitch will do. Into the dead center of the field are jammed two Wickets. Each consists of two Bails – little wooden dowels – perched atop three 2 1/2-foot-high Stumps, which look like croquet stakes. The two Wickets are placed something like twenty yards apart, separated by a dirt strip called the Crease. These poor, innocent constructions are defended and attacked by the players with polite ferocity. Here’s how:

[2] Team A consists of eleven players, but only two are on the field at a time. The nine other team members wait patiently on the sidelines to become batsmen sometime. One batsman stands {not unlike a baseball batter} in front of one Wicket. The other batsman stands near the far Wicket. When a cricket ball is bowled {pitched} at that Wicket, the batsman tries to hit the ball away. In any direction, just away. There are no foul lines. The whole field is fair territory. Foul tips are in play.

[2a] The batsman to whom the ball is bowled (and who guards that Wicket) is known as the Striker. Logically. The other batsman is probably known as “Be Very Careful In Case It’s Hit Right At You”. Fetchingly, this pair of batsmen are called a “Partnership”.

Each batsman gets to wear shin pads. Because the cricket ball is made of the hardest stuff known to humanity outside of Marvel Comics. Let’s just say that the sound of a cricket ball being hit by a cricket bat is a sound that has no give.

[2b] After a ball is hit a safe enough distance away, the each batsman runs along the Crease toward the opposite Wicket. If they both make it safely (we’ll define “safe” shortly), that scores a run. If the ball is still rolling around or being fielded by Team B, the defensive team covering the rest of the field, the batsmen can keep running back and forth; each time they do, they score another run. {Remember the playground game of “Pickle”, where there’s a baserunner or two and the object of the game is to run back and forth between the bases without being tagged out by the two or three or forty kids with baseball gloves? Good; now imagine that we’ve given the runners bats.}

[2c] If a struck ball rolls over the boundary line that encircles the field, the stroke is called a “boundary” and the batting team is awarded four runs. The batsmen don’t have to run back and forth four times. The runs are assumed.

[2d] If a struck ball crosses the boundary line in the air, {not unlike a home run going over the outfield wall,} the batting team is awarded six runs. And everybody goes “ooooooooo.” And some poor soul in the grandstand has to catch a really really hard cricket ball coming at them at many miles per hour. It probably stings.

In an average cricket match, runs are usually scored by the many dozens. Individual players are known occasionally to score as many as a hundred runs in one {at-bat} before being put Out. Sometimes a team might score as many as three or four hundred runs. At this stage, you might logically wonder why Team B is thought of as the defensive team, as there appears to be little or no defense. Hold that thought, please:

[3] Team B, meanwhile, consists also of eleven players, all of whom are on the field somewhere. I’m yet to figure out why players are arrayed exactly where they are, and it can be adjusted at any time; but some are quite close to the Crease while others are very much {outfielders}. They work together to try to put the batsmen Out. More on this in a bit.

[3a] One fielder is parked behind the Wicket guarded by the Striker batsman. That fielder is like a baseball {catcher}, and is called the Wicket Keeper. (Sounds a bit like Dungeons and Dragons, I know.)

[3b] Another fielder stands near the far Wicket, and is called the Bowler {pitcher}. Most of the Bowlers are allowed a running start of about twenty yards before they arrive at the far Wicket and let the ball fly. The Bowler might be seen as a kind of offensive player, as s/he is trying to knock the Wicket’s Bails off its Stumps.

(Usually, the Bowler bowls a ball overhand in such a way that it hits the ground anywhere from a few inches to a few yards before it reaches the batsman; so the batsman is trying to hit the thing on the rise. In baseball, pitches in the dirt are not rewarded. In cricket, it’s the whole point: most balls are bowled with some kind of spin involved, so the ball comes off the dirt in unpredictable directions. So it’s to the Bowlers’ advantage to do it. They never {throw a pitch} that doesn’t hit the ground first, unless it’s slipped out’ their hand. I suspect that there are no bench-clearing brawls in cricket because [a] there are very few beanballs, and [b] again, it’s far too long of a run from the bench to the Crease.)

[3c] The other nine fielders work to field any balls that are struck and throw them back to the wicket keeper. Again, stay tuned for the “why”.

[3d] Any one player from Team B can only bowl one-fifth of the match. So there will be at least five bowlers drawn from the eleven fielders. What each bowler’s {pitch count} might be … will be made clear in a moment.

(I know. So many moments of “wait, wait, it gets better”. But honestly, try to explain baseball in less than ten paragraphs, why don’t ya?)

So far, all we’re doing is scoring runs, seemingly without end. Hath Team B no recourse? Must they stand out there and take such abuse?

Not necessarily.

[4] To keep the other nine members of the batting team from being bored all day, there are ways of causing batsmen to be Out, and for another batsman from the sidelines to have to replace him or her. {Just like in baseball, but with one important catch.}

[4a] If a batsman swings at a bowled ball and misses, and the ball hits the Wicket and causes the Bails to be knocked off the Stumps, that batsman is “bowled out”. Something like a one-pitch {strikeout}. Back to the bench with ya. And from the middle of a soccer-sized field to the bench or clubhouse … that is one hell of a long, lonely walk.

[4b] If a batsman strikes a bowled ball and it’s caught by a fielder before hitting the ground, that batsman is “caught out”. In baseball, a caught fly ball is a routine thing. In cricket it’s not – because, well, there goes a tenth of your batsmen … and because no fielder except the wicket keeper is allowed to wear a glove. So you catch the ball and smile through the pain.

[4c] If a batsman strikes a bowled ball and it rolls for awhile, and then either of the batsmen don’t make it to one of the Wickets before the ball is returned to that Wicket and made to knock the Bails off of it, that batsman is “run out”. There’s a line drawn in the dirt in front of the Wicket, and a batsman is considered Not Out if even the tip of the bat s/he’s carrying (all the time, by the way, so there are no {bat flips} in cricket) crosses the line in time. So you’ll see running batsmen desperately holding their bats out in front of them. Awkward. I mean, physically awkward.

[4d] Here’s my favorite way of getting a batsman Out – not because of what it is, but because of what it’s called.

If a bowled ball strikes the batsman anywhere but on his/her bat – and one of the on-field umpires thinks the ball would have hit the Wicket had the Batsman not blocked it – the batsman is Out. Usually the ball hits the batsman’s shin pads; but even if it hits him or her anywhere else within wicket height, it’s still called “LBW”, or “Leg Before Wicket”. It says what it means, means what it says, and is (to my ear) a relentlessly English term.

[4e] Here’s the thing: when you’re out, you’re done for the match as a batsman. With eleven players, a batting team gets ten outs, which are also called “wickets”, probably since we’re counting the number of Wickets that have been knocked over. Figure: when the first partnership (Batsmen 1 and 2) is disrupted by an out, a second one forms (Batsman 2 is joined by Batsman 3), and so on. Only ten partnerships are possible, since the eleventh batsman can’t bat alone. Ten outs could take only ten {pitches}, if a batting team is really unlucky … or ten outs could take most of the day.

Did you say most of the day?

I did. There’s no shot clock, no scoreboard clock, no time limit at all. As baseball isn’t timed, neither is cricket. As long as the batsmen keep safely batting and running, the match is still going on.

Okay, so one team has a purpose, and the other team tries to stop them. You said this could take a really really long time? Seems vague. Could we have a little structure please?

Only too happy to oblige.

Baseball has nine innings, and each team comes up to bat once per. Back and forth, back and forth. In cricket, back-and-forth is what the batsmen do; but your team gets only one single crack at this. Just one.

[5] Each team gets one chance to bat only, and it’s called an Innings. (I know. It sounds plural. English is a stupid language.) Think of this as each team having one gigantic {half-inning} in which to be on offense. The innings is over when ten batsmen have been put Out.

[5a] Each innings consists of a pre-determined number of series of six bowled balls each. That six-ball series is called an Over. Different matches have different numbers of Overs in each Innings (this depends on many factors; please don’t ask). Could be twenty, or forty, or fifty. So a batting team might face 120, or 240, or 300 {pitches} … and that’s all they get.

[5b] So suppose that Team A bats first and scores 200 runs before either they run out of batsmen or they run out of Overs. This means that Team B then has to score 201 runs to win. If they run out of batsmen or Overs before they reach that score, called the “Target” score, they lose. No extra innings. If Team B scores exactly the same number of runs as Team A did, everybody is very impressed at the statistical unlikelihood, and we call it a draw.

Does this help any?

It’s okay. It’ll sink in.

So if, in the course of your daily life, you hear some radio announcer with an English, Australian, Pakistani or Jamaican accent say, “England are one hundred and twenty-six for nine, through forty-seven overs, with a target of two hundred and thirty-eight”, you know [a] they’ve underachieved offensively, [b] they’ve got only one batting partnership left, [c] they’re running out of time, and [d] a bunch of Britons are about to get really glum.

The game can seem to take forever. It can seem like the same thing over and over and over again. If there’s not a visible scoreboard, you have no concept whatever of how the match is going. But if stay with it long enough, suddenly there’s this incredible moment where you’re not watching sports anymore – you’re watching an epic novel. And you are hypnotized into liking it.

It’s really not complicated. It’s only dressed up to seem that way. How very much like half of my extended family. Rule Britannia.

 

[Next up in the Sticky Wicket series: Question: “yes, yes, rules are fine, and I may even grasp them, but what’s a match involving actual humans like?” Answer: Anywhere between sleep-inducing and a near-riot. Further answer: lemme tell you about the one I saw this weekend…]

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August 30, 2015 Posted by | sports | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Putting It Together

[Optional accompaniment for this blog post may be found here, or here.]

Dear Diary,

Well, that was exciting.

I’ve always thought that it would be kind of a big deal for a real band to play my stuff, and said so. And, as it turns out, yes it is.

A fellow can sit at a desk and put notes on paper, look at them and (thanks to worthy advice from trusted arranger friends) get a sense that those notes are [a] correct, and [b] organized such that all the instruments are playing notes that are not outside their playing ranges, and [c] organized such that the melody stands out properly even when lots of other things are going on.

You can even sit down at your musical instrument of choice and bang out some of the lines, just to make sure an instrument with no biased ear, no emotional dog in that fight, can confirm that at least the actual notes are in a position to make an ensemble sound at least all right.

But until you hear a real band play those notes, which is to say, a group full of humans, you’re not entirely sure you’ve succeeded.

Because an ensemble full of humans can do what machines can’t: they can take a bunch of spots and strokes on a page and they can not merely reproduce them as music notation intended they sound … but they can make them sound like more than just hieroglyphics. They can make them sound like art … like emotional expressions … like fun.

The arrangement I’m referring to, of course, wasn’t created solely out of my own head. A trusted colleague had the original idea, laid out the structure of the production … truly, it was a collaboration. In a sense, I was painting by numbers – my colleague drew a set of lines, and I painted inside them. But in another sense, I was given license to decide what colors to use, what intensities, whether to leave some areas blank and fill others full of artistic ideas that maybe my colleague hadn’t considered. Happily, after observing my painting-inside-the-lines, my colleague seemed pleased. And so did the people playing the instruments.

(How’s that for a tortured metaphor?)

Add to all that … this was a collaboration in another sense. Musical theater producers experience this; sports teams do too. I was a member of a group of creative people, each of whom contributed something to the final product.

People involved with musicals include dramatic directors, musical accompanists, choreographers, lighting and costume designers … and that list is incomplete. Sports teams have offensive and defensive coordinators, pitching and hitting coaches, et cetera, who all work independently at crafting solutions to their particular challenges, and in successful teams, all that work meshes together. And the average person looks at the company, or the team, and doesn’t think ‘wow, all those individual parts and all those separate rehearsal or practice sessions came together to create this singular effort’ … she or he just claps and says ‘yay’.

And so, in this little corner of my world, which seems pretty big at this moment, that collaborative spirit is in place. Ensemble director sends the basic instructions to the wind arranger; once those arrangements are done, the percussion arranger writes the work that will allow the bang-and-crash brigade to accent and highlight and accompany the winds, but also contribute their own presence to the ensemble sound … and then, once those sound ideas have come together, the visual designers set to work. Someone has to figure out where on the football field to put the marchers, and how to have them move during the song, in order that the music is presented understandably (no sense having the big important melody players on the back sideline while the accompaniment wind voices are up front). And, since we’re working in three dimensions here, and because American audiences have been conditioned to expect audiovisual entertainment, important to have people who can invent cool things for people to do who are holding flags and rifles and other implements of destruction.

And in this recent case, I’m on a team that has some very creative people doing all that.

Such that, I will admit, as I saw the production happen – the end of a rehearsal, in front of a smattering of friends and family, not even the uniformed performance in front of screaming band appreciators (or disinterested football fans with a few die-hard band nerds scattered amongst) – I got not a little worked up. I marveled that I got to be part of the group that dreamed that craziness up. I got to experience how much cooler it is to hear my stuff presented by a group of dedicated and enthusiastic humans, than it is to hear my stuff merely rattle around inside my own head – no matter how good I am at imagining the wild applause at the appropriate junctures.

Horn tilt! Company front! Big blast of sound! Cool coordinated sound and picture moments!

All there. All true. A very rewarding feeling; and also a sense of pleasure that the people performing the production appear to enjoy it, too.

Well, that’s all for now. More later, once I’ve seen the thing at halftime, in uniforms and such, from up high in the stands.”

 

Now, pop quiz question: did I write that diary entry to describe [a] the aftermath of my time spent with South Hadley High School’s band, and their field show full of Irish-inflected music, at their pre-season band camp a couple of weeks ago … or [b] my experience contributing to the UMass band’s production of “Bandstand Boogie” – my first chance to hear the wind arrangement I wrote for my alma mater’s thunderous marching band, the Power and Class of New England, exactly twenty-five years ago this week?

Answer: … yes.

August 30, 2015 Posted by | arranging, band, marching band, music, UMMB | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Significant or Successful?

And so, my annual Drum Major Academy teachin’ fortnight draws to a close.

(Actually, it did so a good couple of weeks ago, but life careens onward. You know how that goes.)

To be honest, although I’ve been a part of that rarefied world for seventeen summers, I’m consistently startled at the regularity of one thing: every summer, one thing in particular strikes me as important about what I just experienced … and every summer, it’s a different thing.

One year, it was an appreciation of how DMA staff members take care of business, and take care of their students, and just as importantly take care of each other in moments of crisis (as well as in every other summer moment, and outside of the mere delivery of the curriculum). One year, it was an appreciation of the DMA students, and how social media has allowed them to be their own best support systems, even after the week of instruction is over. One year, it was the recognition that if more groups of teachers were as silly and lunatic and creative as the crowd I get to work with … lots of parts of the world would be in better shape.

In each case, it was an acknowledgment that a DMA week is an intense and concentrated thing, one which has a lasting impact on people – and this is clear not just while six-member student squads do group hugs after the end of the final demonstration for the parents, and not just while the “veterans” (the second- or third-year high-school drum majors who are “crazy enough to come back and do this thing again”) link arms and shed a tear or two or thirty when we play them that song on the last evening.

Talking of veterans and rookies …

I guess I count as a vet, here. Crazy enough (or perhaps it’s some other motivation; yeah, I think) to come back and do this thing thirty-four times now (West Chester and UMass, times 17 summers; because math).

When the staff is briefly introduced to the students by name, early in the week, everybody looks up at the Powerpoint files projected on the screen above the assembled staff’s heads and reads the summary of what each of us do, where we’re from, and how many years we’ve been doing this DMA thing. With very few exceptions, the staff is introduced from newest to most-experienced. And in the last two or three years, I’ve found myself about third-to-last on a bench that usually is twenty or thirty people deep.

Heh. Means I’m old.

It does not, however, mean that I lack for moments in which I definitely don’t feel like a vet.

I’ve run indoor conducting-video analysis sessions a-plenty [side note: who else uses that word anymore?] … I’ve judged tons of squad marching-and-commanding competitions and led lots of pretty productive “postgame” discussions. Lately I’ve even begun to teach mace to absolute beginners (which, for this two-trick pony, is probably about right). But – maybe it’s a little bit about how my brain is wired, but – I look around that room and see so many people whom I consider teaching role models, the quality of whose work I would someday like to at least emulate.

I’d like to think that’s because teachers are always their own toughest critics – always looking for ways they can run that session just a bit better next time.

That feeling doesn’t completely dominate my perceptions all week. When collegiate members of our team, the “IMPACTs” or “CLIP staff”, are assigned to hang out in my TV room or with my company of competition squads, we each seem to learn a bit from each other, and they’re always very kind to suggest that they’ve gotten something out of watching me do my thing. Self-deprecating I may be, but not quite to the point of lockjaw. Shortly many of these kids (and sorry, but they are kids!!) will probably surpass their teachin’ elders, and it’s definitely better that way. Beats the alternative – not least for the sake of DMA. If I can do any tiny thing to make their experience one that they would wish to continue and even pursue as a vocation, … then great.

Two moments from this past two-week summer teaching hitch struck me particularly, with regard to this topic.

First, the out-of-this-world leadership speaker and music-education advocate, Dr. Tim Lautzenheiser, spoke to the West Chester students. He always slips the absolute universal truths in between the belly laughs. Addressing the precarious leadership role into which we’re placing teenaged people, he talked about the “why do you want to be a drum major?” and “are you doing this for the right reasons?” questions. Do you understand that you have the chance to make a difference in people’s lives, or are you just in it for the uniform and the glory? Is it for them or for you? “Do you want to be significant, or do you want to be successful?”

And then, on the last evening of the UMass week, the stellar lead clinician Heidi Sarver had her annual conversation with the students about their opportunity, the biggest of anyone at their school, to make the biggest impact on people in their school. After asking them to remember the people who were important to them when they were rookies – freshmen – she turned it around on them: a few years from now, I’ll ask the DMA students to think about that same subject, and they’ll imagine you.

It’s a pretty effective moment, because suddenly the DMA kids are fully aware that they’re part of a continuum.

And, it occurred to me even more strongly than usual that evening … so am I.

In the summers of 1999 and 2000 and 2001, when I really was a DMA staff rookie, there were people who took me under their wings … gave me a clue … helped me figure out all the mysterious elements that go into teaching at DMA.

I got to hang out in Heidi’s TV room. I looked over Fred’s and Darrell’s shoulders at their “squamp sheets”. I got to watch Jen run her mad, mad, mad morning-calisthenics routine. I got to just generally pick the brains of Jess, and Scott, and Jamie, and Mona. (And, yes, there were numerous others. I think these folks are nicely representative; but I’ve definitely left people out, which is not a good plan. You know who you are; you really do.)

Think of the people who made DMA special for you, my brain translated for me, that evening. And see if you can turn around, just like all those DMA students, and help the next generation as best you can. “Pay it forward” is a nearly-cliched aphorism at this point, but … that’s how this thing survives, and thrives. DMA, and band, and, ideally, the rest of the world too. Boiled down, that’s the point of this fortnight.

Which, ultimately, is thanks to the efforts and inspiration and forethought of the gentleman who thought the whole project up. Who made DMA special for everybody, and continues to do so. Who made it both significant and successful.

August 19, 2015 Posted by | band, DMA, drum major, friends, GNP, marching band, music, Starred Thoughts, teachers | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment